Lullaby
by rainbow-dango
Summary: Season five AU. Olivia is pregnant with her and Peter's second child when the Observers invade.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello, everyone! My name's Ellie. I've been wanting to write a _Fringe_ fic since I started the show back in January, but - alas - it didn't happen for eleven months. Oh, well. At least it's up now! I hope you enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Fringe_ in any capacity. If only._

* * *

Chapter One

October 2015

Her day starts - as the last handful did - with Etta poking her belly. At three, she can't quite comprehend what's happening. She can't wrap her mind around the idea that a baby is growing inside her mother.

"Did you swallow him?" Etta asked a few days before, positively aghast.

Peter snorted into his morning coffee and muttered, "Wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened to us."

Olivia kicked him under the kitchen table, and Etta's tiny eyebrows knit together in confusion. The FBI agent explained the concept of pregnancy as best she could to her toddler - stumbled through it, really, not entirely sure what to say.

"I was in there too?" Etta inquired, confused but fascinated, placing a palm on Liv's stomach. She always questioned things, but at that moment, she just stared and stared. "_Whoa."_

The early morning belly-poking started the next day.

"Etta?" Olivia asks sleepily. As if it'd be anyone else.

"Hi, Mommy," Henrietta chirps brightly. Too brightly for – Olivia squints at her clock – 5:46 AM. Etta's too much like her.

"Baby girl, it's early," she says, yawning. Peter stirs, but doesn't wake. "Even for me. C'mere, get some more sleep."

Her arms are opened for her daughter, who happily crawls over and cuddles close. Etta curls a hand in the white blouse Olivia couldn't be bothered to take off the previous night. She just barely managed to pull off her pants before collapsing into bed next to Peter, who was already fast asleep, and snoring like a bear. Not that he'll ever admit to that particular offense. Why he so determinedly denies it, she has yet to discover. It's probably a 'Bishop thing,' she figures.

Olivia presses a kiss to Etta's hair, makes a mental note that the girl needs a bath. After the park today, she thinks, and then drifts off to sleep once more.

* * *

A few hours later, she wakes again, and she's alone. From the kitchen, she smells bacon cooking, and hears Etta's distinct peal of giggles. Peter says something - Olivia can't hear what exactly - but it makes his daughter laugh even harder.

For a moment, Olivia just listens. Her husband stomps around exaggeratedly, and Etta squeals "Daddy!" but her small voice overflows with joy.

"The Daddy Monster's gonna get you!" She hears Peter roar playfully.

"Nooo!" Etta cries out, her little feet scampering across the wooden floor.

When Etta got old enough to play more roughly, with Peter chasing behind her as a "monster," Olivia always had a brief moment of automatic panic. When she was young, fast and heavy footfalls led to one of two thoughts: _find Rachel_ or _run_. The instinct is so deeply rooted in her mind that thirty years later she has to force herself to remain still and calm, physically holding her breath until she heard Etta's delighted, shrieking laugh.

For some reason, this morning, the feeling doesn't slam into her. Doesn't appear at all. She just lies there, feeling light and airy with sleepy contentment; Etta's happiness has been contagious since her very first smile, and overrides the fear that has a tight grip on her mother's heart.

After a few minutes, Olivia slips out of bed, still smiling serenely. Six months into her pregnancy, stretching her limbs isn't as simple a task as before, and neither is scooping up a pair of Peter's pajama pants from the floor. Their bedroom is littered with most of his discarded clothes; cleanliness is more her thing than his, something she learned early on in their romantic relationship. She pulls the flannel garment and again doesn't concern herself with changing her shirt. She tugs her long hair into a ponytail as she leaves the room.

She finds her husband, her child, and most of her kitchen covered in flour. She sighs, but it's a loving sort of sigh.

"Pancakes?" She asks, eyeing the other ingredients at the table.

Etta giggles.

* * *

Peter disappears to take a shower and Olivia wets a washcloth while Etta strips down to her underwear. It takes half an hour to wipe all the flour off the toddler, and even then, there are still patches of white in her hair. Some small spots on Etta's soft skin that Olivia missed the first time around. She considers bathing Etta now, and decides it'd be in vain. Her child will undoubtedly come home from the park dirty and grass-stained.

"Mama," Etta whines as Olivia wipes the crease under her eye.

"You, little miss, are not allowed to complain. When we make messes, we clean them up, right?"

Etta, ever the stubborn little Dunham, doesn't respond. She knows the rule, but she won't admit defeat. Or, rather, the three-year-old version of defeat.

"Henrietta," her mother says, a no-nonsense warning.

"Right," Etta huffs grudgingly, a miniature teenager. Olivia imagines she inherited that from her father.

She gently rubs off a minuscule patch on Etta's left arm - the last patch, as far as she can tell. Liv tosses the washcloth up toward the sink and it lands in the appliance with a _thud_.

"Two points!" Etta cheers. Olivia's certain that her daughter doesn't know exactly what that means, but her cousin Eddie says it, and Eddie's _cool_. Ella too, of course, being twelve and, in the minds of her brother and Etta, knowing everything a person can possibly know.

"Alright, let's go get you dressed," Olivia chuckles as she stands, having knelt to clean off her starch-covered child.

Etta rushes to her room, her curls flying behind her like blonde streamers, and Liv doesn't bother to follow closely. Her daughter runs. Runs everywhere; runs as fast as her chubby little legs will take her. She's always moving, always bouncing, always doing _something_. It's kind of ridiculous, how much energy is stored in that one small person.

She chooses her own outfit - a cute pink dress with a matching sweater, a birthday present from Nina back in September. Olivia helps Etta dress, making sure nothing is backwards or upside down, and then pulls her unruly hair into two pigtails. With an almost imperceptible sigh, so as not to alert her daughter to her annoyance, Olivia makes a second mental note - Etta needs a haircut. Badly. _Soon_.

Just Olivia ties the second elastic into place, Etta starts to get antsy, jumping in place impatiently. Olivia's lips curl up in amusement as she says, "All done, baby girl. Go see if Daddy's started cleaning up the mess you two made."

Etta bolts out of the room, calling "Daddy!" gleefully as she approaches the precarious edge of the staircase. _One of these days, she's going to slip and learn her lesson the hard way_, Olivia thinks, following at a slower pace. So far, Etta has been inexplicably successful at navigating the steps at warp speed.

As enters Olivia enters the kitchen, Peter lifts Etta onto his shoulders, and she stops, leaning against the doorframe. She knows she must look goofy, with a dumb smile on her face, but she hardly cares. It's a small price to pay for the love that wells up just beneath her ribs.

"How about we make breakfast this time, rather than play with it?" Peter suggests.

Etta nods and then dissolves into hysterical laughter.

* * *

_A/N: To be continued! Up next: the day at the park. The day everything went wrong._

_ Thoughts?_

_-Ellie_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Finally! I'm sorry this took so long. Problems just kept popping up, from huge technological issues (I just love when literally all of my writing gets erased, don't you?) to personal stuff. But finally, finally, finally, this chapter's finished! I won't update so slowly in the future, I swear. I hope you enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: If only._

* * *

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, kiddo?"

Another dandelion seed drifts down to the picnic blanket.

"Do wishes work?"

Etta looks up at her father with the earnestness and innocence only a toddler can possess. Her tone is simply curious, with no trace of doubt. Walter explained the "science" behind wishing on _Ta__raxacum officinale _("Grandpa, those words are too big!" Etta laughed), and she knows her grandfather would never, ever lie to her.

"Of course," Peter replies. "But you have to wish for something really important, like getting lots of candy on Halloween."

Olivia rolls her eyes and Etta giggles.

The last few seeds flutter to the plaid fabric. Etta drops the stem and abandons it to find another dandelion. Neither of her parents say anything, nor do they worry; they know their little girl won't stray too far. Olivia stretches out her legs and Peter takes the opportunity to rest his head in his wife's lap, grinning up at her.

"You barely fit, you know," she points out, and places a hand on her stomach.

"He likes having me close."

"Oh, does he?"

Only days ago, they found out the baby's a boy. _A brother?_ Etta asked when they told her, and then scrunched her nose. _Ew. Boys are gross. _Her dad feigned offense; _I'm a boy. Does that mean I'm gross?_

_You're not a boy._ Etta said in complete seriousness. _You're a daddy._

Peter reaches up and places his hand over hers, interlocking their fingers. It's October, but it's warm, and the heat slows the world down. Etta plays quietly but happily; her brother moves lazily underneath their mother's skin. Peter closes his eyes, half-asleep, hardly thinking of Observers or hostile takeovers or losing his family. Hardly thinking anything at all.

* * *

_July 2015_

_It's been five hours since she told him. Sweltering darkness now covers eastern Massachusetts; they kicked their sheets to the end of the bed like restless children and stripped to their underwear. During any given season, New England weather is an uphill battle, but something as trivial as the temperature can't bring them down. Five hours and the knowledge still overrides every other thought, still sparks like electricity between their bodies._

I'm pregnant_, she blurted out shortly after dinner. Olivia Dunham prided herself on her impassivity, on her ability to maintain calm and collected, important qualities to have when it comes to interrogating criminals, but the news bubbled up before she could suppress it. Peter was absolutely ecstatic; he picked her up and spun her around the kitchen, laughing - breathless and elated - against the skin of her neck: "We're having another baby!"_

_The bedroom's dim, moonlight and stale air streaming through the open window, Peter's palm splayed across her stomach. Her smile matches his, delighted and already completely taken, eyes bright with adoration. Olivia threads their fingers together and leans closer, the tip of her nose brushing his._

_"I love you," she murmurs._

_"I love you too." He looks down at their joined hands, their growing child. "And you."_

_She kisses him then; how can she not?_

_Despite the happiness currently radiating off of them, they have plenty of things to worry about, including the health of Olivia and the baby. Throughout the third trimester of her pregnancy with Etta, she was violently sick, and decidedly too weak for a natural birth. Doctor after doctor was baffled by her condition, finding no viable reason for her illness, but Walter had an explanation._

_"It's the Cortexiphan," he told Olivia, who was clutching Peter's hand for support and for balance. "The drug has become involved in the development of the fetus. Were there more of it still in your system, you would be much healthier, and my grandchild would be born with extraordinary gifts."_

_He then offered to re-dose Olivia, which Peter vehemently opposed before she even opened her mouth. _Let's just lay down an important ground rule now_, he said. _No more experimenting on family.

_They have mundane worries too. Etta's reaction, how they'll accommodate another child, time management. The last one is already tough enough with one child. What happens when they have a newborn and a toddler? A toddler and a first grader, two kids in elementary school? The next two decades or so won't be particularly easy, but 'easy' has never been their thing._

_"Mama?"_

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear._

_Two-year-old Etta stands silhouetted in the doorway, her baby blanket clutched to her chest, surveying the room hesitantly. It's not a secret that she has no issue with interruptions, proved morning after morning, but she's always so reluctant after bedtime. Like there's a stronger possibility for rejection then and only then.  
_

_Olivia sits up, fingers still entwined with Peter's. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"_

_"Too hot," Etta mumbles. She trudges closer and uses the bunched up covers to pull herself onto the bed. Perched on the edge of the mattress, she regards her parents with saucer-wide, miserable eyes._

_Olivia quickly weighs her options. Cuddling - her go-to method for nights like these, when Etta crawls into bed with mother and father - would hardly remedy her daughter's discomfort. What all three of them need is to cool down somehow._

_The lightbulb in her head flicks on; she stands and scoops Henrietta up. Without even a word, she carries her girl out of the bedroom and down stairs, Peter stretching and cracking his joints as he follows._

_Olivia flips a switch and light floods the kitchen._

_"Thanks for the warning," her husband grouses, rubbing his eyes._

_Ignoring the comment, she looks at Etta and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "You wanna know a secret, baby girl?"_

_Peter's nonverbal '_Really?_' bores into her shoulder blades, but Etta nods eagerly, always excited to hear that one word. Secret. It's like her mommy's job, like sneaking cookies when dinner's almost ready, like her daddy letting her watch movies that Mommy said she's not allowed to. It means something wonderful, something awesome.  
_

_Olivia places Etta on the counter. "Do you remember what I told you about Auntie Rachel the other day?"_

_"She's your sis-er. You have the same mommy and the same daddy."_

_"Mhmm. In a few months, you're gonna have a little brother or sister. You'll be like me," she tacks on for good measure. Etta views Olivia as a superhero; any comparison to her is magic._

_"Why?" Always a toddler's first question._

_"Why not?" Olivia counters with a smile._

_Etta considers this almost dumbfoundedly, having never received that particular answer before, and then grins delightedly at her parents. "I have a Rachel! I have a sis-er!" she crows, swinging her legs in excitement and nearly slipping off the counter. Peter instinctively steps closer._

_"I say we celebrate," Olivia proposes, opening the freezer._

_"Ice cream!"_

_She grabs three spoons from the drawer, pops off the lid, and the three of them dig in. Olivia's too content to even scold her daughter for eating with her hands, and Peter doesn't say anything either. What's one late-night bath compared to the millions of nights they'll spend with their children?_

* * *

They know about the invasion; they've known for years now. September - once considered an enemy - all but lives at the lab, providing Walter with crucial information on the Observers and helping him devise a plan to defeat them. Peter and Olivia sketched out countless ideas of their own, but their objectives were much more selfish at heart. They thought only of their children, of keeping their babies safe when the time came. No matter the consequence, no matter the cost. It was Peter who, just last week, brought up the worst case scenario: sending Etta and her newborn sibling away. Into hiding. _Whatever it takes,_ Olivia insisted resolutely. Unwavering. _That's what we said. Their safety above all else._

Walter allowed the preparations and strategies to consume his life, but his son and daughter-in-law were stubborn and (rather uncharacteristically) optimistic. They adamantly refused to bring their worries home with them, refused to let their children grow up as they had. In fear; in confusion; in a world they shouldn't have to know.

But when the Observers do arrive, they lose their daughter anyway.

* * *

"E-excuse me," Olivia manages faintly. Her head throbs violently, almost blindingly, worse than even the migraines that followed her temporary death or her car accident in the original timeline. "What happened?"

"You were caught in a blast," a medic explains, and she just barely hears him. In a more collected state of mind, she'd wonder why he doesn't mention the Observers, or the fact that they were attacked, and that the invaders already clearly have some semblance of control. A tent is hardly a hospital; it's overflowing with bloodied, crying, terrified people, most of them shouting for their loved ones. Men and women in scrubs dart about the crowd, suturing and bandaging and doling out weak reassurances.

Olivia's face stings, bruised and cut, pain flaring across her entire body. Her unborn son moves frantically, kicking and tossing and turning, as if he can sense the panic that surrounds him and his mother.

"It's okay, baby," she murmurs in a strangled voice. "C-calm down. Calm down."

And then she hears Peter. He's arguing with a female medic, says something about 'my little girl,' and Olivia forces herself out of bed. Every muscle protests harshly, leaving her lightheaded as she stumbles forward.

"Peter," she chokes out, but he doesn't hear her. He's calling for their daughter, raw and desperate, almost maniacally pushing through the crowd. "Peter!"

He turns just to see her pass out.

* * *

_A/N: This certainly isn't the most beautiful fic ever written, and I'm not sure how much I like it, but oh well. Can't prolong this any longer, can I? Again, I'm so sorry you had to wait so long. I hope you had an awesome holiday._

_Thoughts?_

_- Ellie_


End file.
